


Easier to Leave

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, References to Suicide, references to human trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some cases hit closer to home than others, and sometimes home is just an illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easier to Leave

**Author's Note:**

> “I make it easier for people to leave by making them hate me a little.” - _The Book of Tomorrow_
> 
> I think I strayed from the prompt by ignoring the “nearly” in “nearly disastrous case”. This is a serious angst-fest with an unhappy ending.
> 
> Many thanks to fleetwood-mouse for the beta!

He’d wanted to go back to Baker Street. Sherlock is sure of it. John had said he wanted to go back to Baker Street and his upper lip hadn’t twitched in the way that always means he’s lying. So why is the atmosphere in the back of the black cab that’s speeding them home positively oppressive? Sherlock had solved the case. John should be complimenting him. Instead, John is sitting with his face turned to the window, as if deliberately avoiding the radiant brilliance seated next to him. The heel of John’s right hand runs up and down his thigh, four passes, before clenching into a tight fist for six seconds then repeating the pattern. It’s a habit born of frustration and a preoccupied mind, Sherlock recognizes. But John had wanted to go back to Baker Street. 

He didn’t want to go with Lestrade to make the final arrests. Sherlock knows why, even if he doesn’t entirely understand it: sentiment. It is entirely misplaced in this case, of course. A divorce is imminent even if neither John or Mary has filed the proper paperwork yet. John’s rucksack, containing just enough clothes to get by, has been tucked in the upper room of 221b since Sherlock revealed Mary’s multiple infidelities over Sunday roast two weeks ago. She had hurt John and that was unforgivable. Sherlock had been cruel and delighted in it. Infidelities aside, he had not suspected her involvement in human trafficking until it was too late.

Now Lestrade is on the way to John’s former home to arrest the woman who probably still dared to call herself John Watson’s wife and John is riding back to Baker Street by Sherlock’s side. John’s hand is still rubbing that tension filled path against his thigh. Can’t he see that this will be better? Better than a marriage built on lies and better than the time he spent alone? Sentiment indeed. 

John doesn’t wait for Sherlock to pay the cabbie. He’s up the seventeen steps and into the sitting room before Sherlock can replace his billfold. When Sherlock does follow, John is standing in the middle of the sitting room, back ramrod straight and at attention. He keeps his gaze around Sherlock’s knees.

“How long have you known?” John’s voice is low and dangerous, teetering on the edge between sadness and rage. 

Sherlock does not insult him by asking for clarification of the question. “I wasn’t sure until today. Until I saw the girls.” 

John’s eyes squeeze shut. Because they had been girls, not women, and Sherlock can see each of their young faces playing across John’s memory. It takes several moments before John opens his eyes again. 

“Was any of it real? Our relationship, our fucking marriage, any of it?” 

Sherlock jerks back. “What?” 

John’s shoulders fall, just an inch or so, but enough for Sherlock to notice the change. “Was she using me? She could have been, right? Using me to give the appearance of stability and innocence while she did... this.” He pauses and pulls in a shaky breath. “Did I contribute to this Sherlock? Did these girls suffer because I let it happen?” 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock’s voice is harsher than he intends. But how could John, who has never been anything but the most just and honorable man, think for one moment that he could have contributed to this. It’s unfathomable. 

It’s at that point that John falls over into rage. “I guess we’re all idiots compared to the great Sherlock Holmes. But that’s okay because it all comes back to you in the end. I thought I could have one good thing, one thing of my own, and you have to swoop in and ruin it.”

“You would have prefered me to let your wife sell underage immigrants to the highest bidder?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

“You’re talking about the affairs? You’re angry that I informed you of the number of men, and women, Mary has slept with since you married her? That’s ridiculous. You needed to know.” Sherlock feels his own anger rising to match John’s. Where John’s burns red hot and is pushed to an out of control height by the emotions of the day, Sherlock’s anger is cold and calculating. It’s the difference between a raging hurricane and a carefully executed poisoning. Both are terrible ways to go and there’s no stopping it once it starts. 

“And you always know what’s best for everyone around you, don’t you?” Sherlock’s retort only pushes John’s anger higher. 

Sherlock takes a moment to lower himself to his armchair, the picture of cool confidence. “In this case, certainly.” 

“Even when it means you jump from a fucking hospital roof and play dead for three years.” 

Sherlock’s eye roll is involuntary. “I’ve been back for eight months. Surely, you can’t still be-”

“Do not finish that sentence.” John takes a threatening step toward Sherlock’s seated form, his hands curled in tight fists. Sherlock knows that John will not spare his nose and teeth this time. 

The tension between the two is cracked by the sound of Lestrade’s footsteps pounding up the stairs. Sherlock rises to meet him, buttoning his jacket in one fluid motion, as he crosses the threshold. 

“Lestrade. Have you arrested Mary Watson?” Sherlock is perplexed. Lestrade should be at New Scotland Yard dealing with the final touches on the case, not in 221b’s sitting room. 

“No.” Lestrade looks confused and uncertain. “We weren’t in time to arrest her.” 

“Has she escaped?” Sherlock asked. Flight is unlikely, in terms of time and logistical issues as well as Mary’s character, and Sherlock cannot piece together how that could have been possible. 

“No. She must have known we were coming.” Lestrade turns to John, putting his back almost completely to Sherlock. “I’m sorry, John.” 

The penny drops for Sherlock but is obviously still suspended by a string of hope for John. “Sorry? Sorry for what? I don’t understand.” His complexion turns pale as the probable options diminish. 

Lestrade inches forward as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Where is your gun, John?” 

John’s knees buckle but the sofa is there to catch him. “At home. With Mary.” 

“You left your gun behind?” Sherlock’s voice crackles across the sitting room with the snap of accusation. 

John’s reply is instant and scathing. “I haven’t needed it in over three years. It sort of slipped my mind as I was thinking about the end of my marriage.” 

Sherlock can’t repress the scoff at such blatant dramatics. Lestrade doesn’t bother to spare him a glance before he moves completely between Sherlock and John. He kneels to bring his eyes level with John’s. 

“We called the paramedics but there was nothing they could do. I’m so sorry, John.” 

John buries his face in his hands and sits in silence. Lestrade stays kneeling in front of him. Sherlock runs through all the possible outcomes, all the variables that could have led to this. There’s a small chance she would have been tipped off to the certainty of arrest but the odds are low that John’s gun would have been left in their shared brick townhouse, that Mary would know how to use it, or that she’d have the courage to do so. It is an astounding finish to the case. 

John’s chest is heaving and Sherlock finds it absolutely hateful. “Why are you so upset? It was over. You’d left her. You weren’t going back.” 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade manages to shout out before John lowers his hands. His eyes are dry but his chest still shakes with each breath and his lips are compressed into a tight line. 

“I’m upset because you came back and ruined my marriage, exposed my wife as a monster, but couldn’t possibly see that she would shoot herself. Your powers of deduction only destroy, never save.” 

“You’re irrational.” Sherlock bites it out like the most damning of curses. 

“If you tell me what I should be feeling one more time...”

Sherlock rises from his chair and Lestrade finally has the good sense to remove himself from the line of fire. “Obviously someone has to tell you what to feel because you can’t seem to get it right!” 

John rises to match Sherlock and takes a step closer so that only the coffee table separates them. “You’re the last person who can talk about getting it right. Do you think I’ll have to wait three years for her to come back or will this one stick?” 

It’s by far the cruelest thing Sherlock’s ever heard John say. John who is so good and noble but has been sunk so low by Mary fucking Watson. Sherlock would kill her himself if she hadn’t beaten him to it. He remains silent in the face of John’s cruelty, seeing the situation quickly spiral toward an outcome he could not have predicted. 

John redirected to Lestrade when Sherlock fails to answer back. “I’d like to come to the station.” 

Sherlock sees the pieces falling together. “John.” He’s not sure how one syllable can simultaneously sound like a condemnation and a desperate plea, but there it hangs in the air between them. 

John’s anger deflates into resignation. “I wanted one good thing for myself. Just for myself. But it always comes back to you, doesn’t it Sherlock? If it’s not about you, you have to make it about it you before you’re happy.” 

Sherlock says nothing because he can think of no response that will not anger John. Lestrade uses the silence to clear his throat before speaking. “I can take you to the Yard whenever you’re ready.” 

“I need to get my bag.” 

“Don’t do this, John.” 

John keeps his eyes locked on Lestrade. “I’m not coming back here.” 

His upper lip doesn’t twitch in the way that always means he’s lying, his hands are relaxed at his sides, and Sherlock knows he means it. Sherlock turns his back on the sitting room and cradles the Stradivarius to his chest. There’s no goodbye from John or from Lestrade as they leave the flat. The weight of John’s rucksack makes his footsteps echo strangely down the stairs. 

Sherlock watches them walk to the end of the block and duck into Lestrade’s unmarked police car. He wills John to turn around, to come back to 221b, but there’s no hesitation in John’s movements. He stays, framed by the window and with the silent violin in his arms, well after the sun fades from the sky, and Mrs. Hudson takes the untouched tea tray away, and Mycroft shouts at him to move. 

He vows to himself that he’ll stay there, with 221b gone cold and quiet around him, until John comes to his sense and returns. John will come back and they’ll solve cases and Sherlock will declare him an idiot and John will declare Sherlock’s brilliance. Everything will be as it was when John comes back. John must come back. 

He doesn’t.


End file.
